


Eyelids

by wheatleyandrews



Series: Greendreams [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Fluff, M/M, Mild Smut, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatleyandrews/pseuds/wheatleyandrews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The grey windows snatch darker as the sun winds down invisibly through the sky, and to anyone inside it appeared as though the windows were the castle's heavy eyelids finally giving way to sleep. Bran simply stares out through them, blind, tired, cold and aching.</p><p>Jojen knits his hands together with Bran's in his lover's lap. "What's the matter?" The torchlight dwindles as the windows fill with complete, choking black. Bran opens his mouth to start, but closes it again, and inches himself to straddle Jojen's leg and turn his head to him.</p><p>"You are the King of the North and the Neck," Jojen says, "the descendant of a myriad of Stark kings before you." He drums across the young king's belt buckle. "You are wise like your father, but not so foolishly trusting. You are strong like your mother, but not so vengeful and spiteful. And you are courageous like your brother, but not so foolhardy. You are the perfect and true king, my king, until the end of your days."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyelids

_We're stuck_ , he thinks. _We're going to be stuck here forever_. Bran's mind rolls like marbles on slick glass. Winter howls menacingly outside the rippled glass, its snarl the wind that finds its way through every crack of the thousand-year-old castle. Bran's eyes ache as he stares incessantly out at the mottled, dusty grey of the blizzard, snowflakes melting in and out of the abyss as they dodge the screaming gales before crashing haphazardly into the stone, dripping like candlewax from the sky that fills every crevice in every window and every doorway.  
  
There hadn't been a rider for days, and even in Greywater Watch, where the lone, desperate courier had come from, the crannogs stood still on their stilts as the swamp froze them in place. Here in Winterfell, where the King of the North sits upon his weirwood throne, the winter swallows them entirely, chipping away and burying them with buffeting blades of wind and ice. For the past three days Bran saw nothing of his kingdom from his throne. Not even the castle walls could shoulder through the barrage of snow. All the Master of Winter could see was winter laughing him flat in the face.

The grey windows snatch darker as the sun winds down invisibly through the sky, and to anyone inside it appeared as though the windows were the castle's heavy eyelids finally giving way to sleep. Bran simply stares out through them, blind, tired, cold and aching.

The small council collects before him indifferently in the scant torchlight, jabbering about the uneven alliance with Stannis Baratheon that put Bran on the throne, fretting about the growing Lannister forces mounting on the southern border beyond Moat Cailin, relishing in reports of the final cells of Bolton and Karstark rebels finally uprooted, fearing terrible sightings at the Wall…  
  
"What good is it," Bran starts as the councillors snap silent, "to rule a kingdom I can't even see?" He nods to Jojen and a small smile flashes across the young Hand's face. The old men, all grey and wise and shrewd and wrinkled, for once, had nothing to say in reply. Jojen drapes an arm under Bran's and helps him rise. "My legs are still weak and the cold aches my bones, my lords. The storm has made my body and mind numb." He sighs, and Jojen drums his fingers across his back slowly, encouraging him. "I call for the small council to be adjourned  until the storm has passed."  
  
Jojen nods to them. "There is no point in pining about the kingdom beyond the castle at the moment, my lords. It is foolish to be concerned when all the North is as trapped in this chaos as we are."  
  
The councillors hem and haw, scraping their knotted wooden chairs screechingly across the cold tile as they stand to return to their quarters. One by one the old men hobble out through the peaked archway until only the king and his Hand remain in the vaulted expanse of the throne room.  
  
Bran tries to settle himself back down, but Jojen foxes behind him before he can bend his week knees and pulls the king into his lap. "Do not overtax yourself, my king," he says, forcing a chuckle out of Bran's mouth. A touch of red stains his high cheekbones before fading away. His stare rehardens.  
  
"Where has your mind wandered to now, love?" Jojen knits his hands together with Bran's in his lover's lap. "What's the matter?" The torchlight dwindles as the windows fill with complete, choking black. Bran opens his mouth to start, but closes it again, and inches himself to straddle Jojen's leg and turn his head to him.  
  
"Sometimes I feel as though you would make a much finer king." Bran's eyes betray his embarrassment. Jojen drums him again, this time in the stomach, and sighs.  
  
"House Stark descends from a line of noble, able rulers as ancient as Winterfell itself," Jojen answers, pressing his lips to Bran's neck. "And I am the Hand. You may ride inside the palanquin, but I hold it high on my shoulders to keep it from scraping through the mud, and I lead it towards fairer pastures."  
  
Bran laughs softly and nods. "We both have our heads trapped in the clouds, Jojen. Inside the palanquin I have the illusion of luxury and honor while you by bearing it have the illusion that I somehow deserve such things."  
  
Jojen laughs, but squeezes his hand and _tsks_ at him. "You are the King of the North and the Neck, the descendant of a myriad of Stark kings before you." He drums across the young king's belt buckle. "You are wise like your father, but not so foolishly trusting. You are strong like your mother, but not so vengeful and spiteful. And you are courageous like your brother, but not so foolhardy. You are the perfect and true king, my king, until the end of your days."  
  
"I'm a twenty year old boy, Jojen." He sighs, turning away.  
  
"Then that gives all the more time for you to live among the people who love you as their wise and affectionate king." Jojen steals another kiss on his neck and lingers there, letting his hot, moist breath dance across Bran's pointed neck, throwing shivers through him. The silence is filled with the hammering of their heartbeats over the faint growl of the wind.  
  
"Shall we retire, my lord?" Bran smiles. He can see the want in Jojen's verdant mossy eyes, the desire for him glinting like pale gold in the embers of the torchlight.  
  
"We shall." Jojen's grin grows ear to ear as he stands, guiding Bran back to his feet. He slips his lover off his feet and Bran giggles in the smoky darkness as Jojen cradles him and kisses him deeply, love melting through their lips and evaporating in their hot, hushed breath.  
  
The king nuzzles into the Hand's warmth as they mince through the stone corridors to Jojen's bedchamber. In the darkness the king sees nothing but feels Jojen tugging away their clothes and pooling them on the floor, and hears the hefty iron lock on the door snap into place. He listens intently to Jojen's slow, easy breaths as he slips next to him between the silk sheets, and the same shivers run down him as the lord of the crannogmen cradles his head into his chest and rests a hand on his stomach, where his spray of auburn hair curls around his navel.  
  
"Do you want me tonight, my king?" Bran nods silently in response and turns to face his lover among the silk.  
  
He touches a finger to Jojen's chest and trails down its smooth firm curves, to where his own spray of cornsilk colored hair peppered his abdomen. "I want you now and always, Jojen," he whispers, taking Jojen, already firm, in hand, and touching him to his own rapidly hardening cock. Jojen bites his lip just as Bran brings his mouth to meet it, and as they kiss Jojen matches Bran's pace, returning every caress and tug and slide on Bran's cock in turn.  
  
Before long Bran can feel Jojen panting into his mouth in the suffocating darkness, and a wetness traces across his stomach seconds before Bran himself spills over the Hand, their kiss growing wild, defiant of the thick of winter strangling the castle in a chokehold.  
  
Jojen pulls Bran close in the darkness, aligning him flush with his own lithe body beneath the silk, the wetness pressed between them. "I'm so tired," Bran whispers. He sighs and blushes. "I know that was less than what you expected, but --"  
  
Jojen hushes him with a single finger over his mouth. "Bran, I will take whatever you can give me and nothing more."  
  
Bran smiles invisibly in his arms. "How many more days and nights like this, Jojen? I know you've foreseen it." The howl of the wind is more muted here, in the bedchamber built into the lee, the snarl muzzled further by the thick, grey granite.

  
Jojen sighs. "Five, I believe." He presses the tip of his nose to Bran's scalp, parting his dark, tawny hair to breathe in his scent.  
  
"And you'll be here to keep me warm?" Bran teases him incredulously, knitting their feet together at the bed's end. Bran can feel his eyelids weighing down like reluctant leaves in the godswood pond, growing waterlogged until they finally lack the strength to float and descend into the sweet darkness of sleep. Jojen's last whispers reach out to him before he touches the soft bed of the pond.  
  
"For this and every night."


End file.
